Chapter twelve

CATHERINE UNLOCKED THE door that opened into her office from a hallway off the main corridor and crossed the room to her desk. Normally, her patients exited through this door so that they did not have to go out through the main waiting room and running to other patients who were waiting. It also allowed her to come and go without seeing her patients before or after the session. She glanced at the clock on the opposite wall and saw that it was 5:28 pm. Sighing tiredly, she settled into the high backed leather chair behind her desk and picked up the phone. Dialing the extension for her secretary, she closed her eyes briefly.

"Yes?" Joyce asked.

"Is my 5:30 here yet?"

"Yes," Joyce answered. Right on time and looking like she's about to face a firing squad. She smiled faintly at the serious-faced young woman sitting across from her and was rewarded by a brief lift of her surprisingly full lips in return.

"Good. Give me a minute, and then tell her to come in."

"Anything I can get you? I put fresh coffee on."

"No, thanks. I'll grab a cup between this one and the last one."

“Very well."

A moment later, Catherine's door from her waiting room opened and her 5:30 appointment walked in. "Good evening, Officer."

"Hi." Mitchell settled into her customary spot, the right hand leather chair of the pair that faced the psychiatrist's desk. As she sat, she plucked at the thighs of her sharply creased trousers to minimize the wrinkling. Her back did not touch the upright portion of the chair.

"I see you're in uniform, so you are still working, I take it?"

"More or less," Mitchell acknowledged. "I'm getting paid. No street duty though. It's a desk job, more or less. "

"And I assume you find that frustrating?"

"Well, until this morning I would have said so, yes."

Catherine raised a surprised eyebrow. "Really? I got the impression you considered anything other than a street assignment almost a disciplinary action."

Mitchell smiled. "Most cops like to think of themselves as street cops. After all, that's where the action is. That's where you make your stripes. The only ones who don't want street duty are the ones who come to law enforcement with the intent to be administrators. They're the MBAs who want to be commissioner someday and the lawyers who can't find jobs, and hope that a year or two of police were will give them a step up into the prosecutor’s office. They only put in enough street time to fulfill their basic requirements before angling for something that will get them an administrative position."

"So most officers would find your present duty undesirable?"

"Well..." she still wasn't entirely certain how much you should reveal to the psychiatrist. She felt a lot safer talking to her then she would have to the departmental shrink, but there was no telling how much of what they discussed would make its way back to her division commander or into her personal file. Still, it felt good to be able to talk to someone. Carefully, she continued. "The duty Sergeant gave me an assignment that I'm sure he thought would just take me off the streets and put me somewhere where everyone could forget about me. Usually when they want to bury someone they move them to the property room, which is an assignment that most people get when they've been disciplined but can't be fired or older uniformed officers who are approaching retirement and want something easy to do. He probably figured if he did that it would have been a little obvious. Then if I complained to my union rep it would have made things touchy. So he posted me to what he thought would be a dead-end duty, but I think he figured wrong."

Catherine laughed. "You're going to have to do some translating for me here, Officer. The intricacies of police politics escape me."

Laughing, Mitchell relaxed enough to lean back in her seat. "Me too, although I'm learning quickly. He put me on this new task force that's just getting underway, probably figuring it would be nothing but a bureaucratic nightmare and all I would be doing is filing paperwork. Probably all I will be doing is filing paperwork, but I'm working with someone who almost anyone in uniform would give an arm or a leg to work with."

"I think I see," Catherine remarked. "So you think that might be an advantage to this assignment that no one appreciated, is that it?"

"Maybe. First of all, it's an interesting assignment. Plus, several federal agencies are involved, so there's a chance it could turn into something really big. If I can contribute something, maybe I can show that I'm not a screw up."

Catherine didn't reply, and her face did not show her consternation. There couldn't possibly be two task forces like this at one time. Rebecca’s assignment. Attempting to redirect the conversation away from the specifics in hopes of avoiding any discussion of her lover, she asked, "So you're not displeased with your current work situation?"

"No, not at all. The fastest way for someone to get promoted out of the ranks into the detective division is by assisting a detective with their case. And the detective in charge of the PD end of things is Rebecca Frye. You know her, of course, because you were involved with her during the Harker thing. If I can manage to make any kind of impression on her, it could actually end up helping my career."

"Yes. Of course." Catherine had known that her involvement in the serial murderer/rape case might come up with any of her patients. Unfortunately, it had been heavily publicized, and the dramatic ending had also been covered by the news and print media. Despite her attempts to downplay her involvement, her photograph had been displayed on television and in local newspapers and magazines. Nevertheless, anticipating that it would come up in session and actually having it presented to her were two different things. Still careful to keep her expression neutral, she continued, "I'm glad this new assignment hasn't turned out to be a punishment."

"Are you kidding? As soon as I get a better idea of how she's going to run the street end of things, I'm hoping I can make myself useful. I've been working the Tenderloin for more than half a year. It could be I know some people who might give us some leads. But no matter how it turns out, any uniformed officer would pay money to work with her."

I don't doubt it. Except this is supposed to be desk duty for her. But I can't very well bring that up, can I? Mentally turning that thought aside, the psychiatrist concentrated on her new patient. Mitchell's entire demeanor had changed from one of quiet resignation to enthusiasm. It was clear how important her work was to her emotional state. And it was time to get back to that. "Our last session ended before you were able to tell me what happened in the alley that night. We need to go through it, and talk about what happened after, before I can sign off on my evaluation."

"I know." Mitchell's expression became serious as she met Catherine's eyes. She was ready to get it over with. Perfunctorily, she stated flatly, "There isn't very much more to tell. I went down the alley—"

"Wait," Catherine interrupted softly. She didn't want a recitation; she wanted the remembrances. "It was dark, and you were alone, and your backup hadn't arrived. There were sounds of a struggle, and you went to investigate, correct?"

Mitchell's eyes darkened as Catherine's quiet voice brought her back to the moment that was still as clear in her memory as the instant it had happened.

"I had my weapon out and my heart was beating so fast it was like a drum beating in my ears. I pressed my back flat against the brick wall and I could feel the uneven surface of the stones catching on the back of my shirt as I eased my way down the alley. I didn't want him to know I was coming until I was close enough to subdue him, because I didn't know if he had a weapon. It's impossible to subdue a suspect hand to hand if you're not within arm's reach. If he has a gun and you can't physically reach him, you're dead. It was hard not to stumble over bits of trash and broken glass and rocks. I was certain I was announcing my presence with every step I took. The gun barrel was angled up--I was holding it beside my face in a two-handed grip, and I was looking past it towards the shapes that were just shadows moving in the little bit of light that filtered down from the windows high up above me. As I got closer I could hear him grunting, and she was..." Mitchell swallowed, trying not to remember the sound of a skull being slammed hard against a stone wall and the soft moan of pain.

"She had been screaming before, shouting, I think, for him to stop. Now she was...whimpering. I was afraid he was going to kill her."

Without realizing it, she had clutched the arms of the chair, her hands white-knuckled with the force of her grip. "I could see them more clearly now. He was big--linebacker kind of big. He had one hand around her throat and the other under her skirt. Her thighs were bare, pale, ghostly in the moonlight. I saw her face for the first time then. There was blood on her face..."

From across the desk, Catherine could see the sweat bead on the young woman’s forehead and knew that although her eyes were open, she wasn't seeing anything except those moments replaying as real as if they were happening now. She didn't have to imagine the feeling. She knew the feeling. "Go on," she said very gently.

Mitchell jerked slightly at the sound of the voice that seemed to be coming from very far away. "I announced myself...I think I yelled ‘Police! Put your hands up where I can see them.’ God, he was fast. It was almost as if he knew I was coming, or at least he wasn't surprised to find me there. He let her go and she slumped to the ground. My eyes followed her for just a second, but it was enough time for him to swing around with his hands locked together and catch me in the side of face. Stupid move on my part. I went down on my knees and he followed up the punch with a kick. At least I saw it coming and managed to roll away from most of that. His foot connected with my hip but it wasn't that bad. I was still between him and the street and the alley wasn't that wide. I knew I had I had to get up or he would just jump over me and be gone. As I got to my feet, he grabbed my shirt and punched me low, below the bottom of my vest. And that's when I hit him with the butt of my service revolver."

"He hurt you." It was a statement, because the facts spoke for themselves. "Do you remember hitting him?"

Mitchell blinked as if awakening from a dream. She could still smell his sweat, and the coppery odor of blood, and the acrid stench of her own fear. She felt the ache between her thighs where his fist had landed, and she saw with perfect clarity the battered face of the woman lying on the ground.

She stared at Catherine for so long that Catherine began to wonder if she would answer. Finally, the psychiatrist asked, "Officer, do you remember striking him?"

Mitchell wasn't certain what she should say. She didn't know how her words would be used against her. She met the warm green eyes that held such tenderness, an acceptance that eased some part of the terrible pain, and she answered hoarsely, "No."

"Sorry I'm late. Traffic."

"That's all right. How are you? I haven't seen you at all the last few days except at conferences." Hazel Holcomb settled into her chair and regarded her young colleague with a speculative expression.

Catherine shrugged wearily as she dropped her briefcase by the sofa, then smiled deprecatingly. "I could plead workload, but...I think I've been avoiding you."

"Ah ha." Hazel sipped her coffee and pulled an ottoman over in front of her chair with her toe. Propping both feet up, she raised her cup slightly. "Coffee?"

"Tonight, I think I'll take you up on it." Catherine walked to the antique credenza against one wall in Hazel's home office/study and poured the aromatic brew into a delicate china cup. "I'm surprised that you even use these except for special occasions," she remarked absently as she sat down across from Hazel. "They're so beautiful."

"Too lovely to keep behind glass. Now, let's get back to that therapeutically laden statement about avoiding me."

"You said I should see you regularly, and I didn't want you to remind me about that."

"Why not?"

"Probably because there's something I don't want to talk about."

"Only one thing?" Hazel asked in mock seriousness. "How fortunate. We should be able to clear that up tonight then."

Catherine laughed. "All right. Several things."

"And yet you called me for the appointment this afternoon."

"Yes," Catherine admitted. "I know enough to recognize avoidance, and I know that's not the answer. So, here I am."

"How are you sleeping?"

"Better."

"And the dreams?"

Catherine shook her head. "Not for the last couple of nights."

"Good." She didn't need to add that it might be temporary. The younger psychiatrist knew that, of course. "Then what's troubling you?"

"I suddenly realized that I don't know very much about being in a relationship."

"Interesting, isn't it, how we never appreciate that until we're actually faced with it," the older woman mused. "What's happened to make you think that now?"

"Rebecca has gone back to work, and I don't know how to...react to it."

Hazel emptied her cup and leaned over to place it on the end table next to her chair. "Reactions aren't something you think about, they're something you feel. How do you feel, Catherine?"

"A little insecure. I'm not certain where I fit in her life any more." She hesitated, then added, "Or where she fits in mine."

"Do you love her?"

"Yes." That was something she didn't even need to think about.

"And her? Does she love you?"

"Ah," Catherine said softly. "How do you do that?"

"What?" Hazel asked quietly.

"Ask the right question?"

"Part of it is practice, as you very well know. And part of it is knowing you. And part of it is knowing what we all fear—that our love will not be returned. So...why are you insecure?"

"She's so damn self-sufficient," Catherine replied, surprised at the anger she heard in her own voice.

"And?" Hazel prompted.

"I'm afraid that all she really needs is her work."

"Some people would say that about me. Or you."

"Yes," Catherine countered, her tone still sharp. "But my work won't get me killed..."

"And hers might," Hazel finished softly.

Catherine leaned back into the cushions and closed her eyes. Finally she said, "I'm supposed to meet her for dinner after this." She opened her eyes and sat forward. "Would you mind very much if we cut this session short? I just need to see her."

"It's your time, Catherine. I'm certain you know how best to use it. Go see her and let her remind you of what it was that first touched you about her."

"Thank you."

"And Catherine," Hazel added as her colleague gathered her things to leave. "Give yourself a little time. She wasn't the only one struck by that bullet."

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